


for this one night be sound

by sansbanshees



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5973939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal Trevelyan has never had a problem fending off demons... until one comes to her wearing Solas's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Humble Guises

**Author's Note:**

> There will be several instances within this story where consent is either extremely dubious and/or non-existent. Please please please be aware of that before continuing on.

Mal has been staring at the report in her hand for so long, the words are starting to blur together. She meant to finish the stack of them tonight, but this pile alone seems endless, and it is only the first of three that she ought to read through before the morning briefing in the war room.

It is not the first time that this has happened. Every mission away puts her further behind, hopelessly out of touch with the day to day operations of an organization she is supposed to be in charge of. Her first week back at Skyhold is always spent in a desperate bid to catch up, with varying degrees of success.

She leans back in her chair, and rubs her eyes.

This would be easier during the day. Her quarters are far too inviting for sleep, expansive and quiet, the soft glow of the hearth and a single candle at her desk enough to see the words on each piece of parchment, but far from bright enough to rouse her from exhaustion. The sway of the flame on her candle is a lure she does not dare look at directly, lest she fall under its spell and be lulled to sleep inside of a heartbeat.

With a sigh, she leans forward.

By the time she reaches the middle of the next page, her elbow is braced on the desk, and the support of her hand against her cheek is all that is keeping her head upright.

When her eyes drift shut, she is powerless to stop it. Sitting at her desk is not her preferred place to slip into the Fade, but it seems the choice is out of her hands—only she wakes what feels like moments later, her eyes opening slowly in response to the pleasant warmth of a hand pressed gently to her shoulder.

“Inquisitor.”

She turns towards the quiet sound of Solas’s voice, a smile forming slowly as she blinks to clear away the haze. “Are you checking up on me?”

He does not return her smile, he so rarely does, but it looks as though he would like to. Perhaps she ought to be embarrassed, being found like this, but there is no judgment in the way he looks at her. “That was not my intention, but my timing appears to be fortuitous for the task.”

“Did you need something?” It is both strange and—somehow not strange, that he is visiting her so late. Or is it early? “I haven’t gotten to the veil measurements yet, I’m sorry. Here, I’ll just—” She digs through the pile at the far side of her desk until she finds the familiar neat lines of his writing.

“It can wait.” He does smile now, and it disarms her so easily, as it always seems to. She lets the page slip out of her grasp without argument when he takes it from her to place it on the other side of the desk. “You should rest. I’m certain you will be informed of any pressing matters come morning.”

“No, I’m fine. I need to get through these.” She sits up, and rolls her shoulders back to work out the stiff set of her muscles. “I wouldn’t mind company, if there is something you need to talk about. It might help me stay awake.”

Company is perhaps the only thing that will help. Her eyelids still feel so heavy. The moment he leaves, she will be done for.

“Are you certain?” He hesitates. “What I wish to discuss… It may be better left for another time, when your focus is not required elsewhere.”

It is that hesitation that makes her reach out to still him with a touch to his wrist before he can leave. “What’s wrong?”

He glances away.

“Solas.” She stands, and takes a hesitant step forward. This is not like him. “What is it?”

“Do you remember our… discussion? In the Fade?”

Of all the subjects she thought he might bring up, that is not one of them. Of course she remembers it—though discussion, she thinks, is the wrong word for what he is referring to. She also remembers that he asked for time to make considerations, in the single talk about it that followed.

So much time has passed since then, she never thought to hear of it again. She does not know what to say. This—it does not feel real, but then the warmth of his hand envelops hers, and nothing has ever felt so real in her life.

“Is this truly what you want?” There is gravity in his voice, and the promise of so much heat, but he speaks as if he means to warn her. Of what, she cannot imagine. “You would have me? Give yourself to me, in return?”

As if her answer has changed. “Do you really need to ask me that?”

He nods, a small smile sliding into place. “I do.”

“You know how I feel.” She reaches up and rests her hand against his chest, the beat of his heart a steady drum beneath her palm. “My answer is yes. It’s always been yes.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” The tips of his fingers graze her cheek, a fleeting touch she leans into to seek more of. “It will not happen again.”

He does not kiss her softly. There is nothing gentle in the press of his lips, the push of his tongue past her teeth. His fingers curve around to the back of her head, push upwards into her bun to pull it loose, the dark waves of her hair falling down around his hand. He closes his fingers around it, and tugs her head to the side as his lips move from her mouth to her neck, teeth scraping at the rapid jump of her pulse. If this is what has held him back, that he is not a gentle lover—she could tell him that she does not mind it, that she likes it, but she thinks the way that she moans, the way her hips strain towards his, is answer enough. 

They do not make it to the bed. They barely make it past her desk; his report flutters to the ground as they bump into it along the way. He stops only to tear her shirt over her head and fling it into some dark corner, her trousers and smalls falling to the floor once he pushes them past her hips, and then she is on her back, spread out in front of the fire. He is with her in an instant, his own shirt discarded before he covers her body with his own, his hips settling into the cradle of her spread thighs, the hard length of his cock grinding against her as her hips rise to meet him.

“Solas…” Her voice breaks into a whimper when he closes his lips around her nipple, and sucks.

His fingers skim across her hip, down her stomach and further still to part her folds. She jerks when he presses down on her clit, a sharp noise slipping past her lips that makes him chuckle.

“How long has it been since anyone has touched you?” There is a callous sort of amusement in the way he asks the question—or perhaps she is imagining it.

“Too long.” Her lips part around a moan as he presses harder. “Please… Please don’t stop.”

He withdraws his touch, raises his hand to his mouth to slip two fingers past his lips to wet them. “Say it again.”

Her mouth drops open, one side pulling back slowly in faint amusement at his boldness. “Plea—”

Mal cannot finish the word when he reaches between her thighs once more, the smooth slide of his fingers against her clit too sharp a pleasure to think, let alone speak. Her head falls back, eyes closing at the onslaught of heat rising in the wake of his touch. He plays her with precision, tension drawing tight in her limbs with every skating touch, and she moans when his fingers plunge into her with a soft, wet sound.

“That’s it,” he coaxes her gently, fingers curling just right in the wet heat of her cunt. “Let me hear you.”

He pumps his fingers slowly, draws them out to smear her clit with slick, every gasp and moan falling from her lips rewarded with another touch, another caress, until she can hardly stand it. He pulls away when her legs start to shake, and she wails in desperation at the loss.

But he is not abandoning her, not truly. He pushes back, lowers his head nearly to the floor, and drags the flat of his tongue through her folds. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth without a second to spare; the sound she makes is too loud to go unchecked, the whole of Skyhold would hear her and know exactly what is happening in this room. He all but growls in frustration at the muffled sound, presses his fingers into her once more and thrusts them without mercy as his tongue curls around her clit.

Her hands fall away from her mouth, and he moans in encouragement at each little cry that escapes. It is too much, too fast, each swipe of his tongue building her pleasure higher, her hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into her, and when she breaks, it is not quiet. Her cry is loud, desperate, hitched and verging on a sob. He drags himself up the length of her body and crushes his lips to hers, the taste of her still heavy on his tongue.

She clutches at his back with shaking hands. Her legs draw up, toes hooking into the waist of his breeches, and she pushes them down without finesse, as far as she is able. He reaches down to help her, pushes them further past the swell of his ass as her head lifts from the floor.

She wants to see this. She wants to see him. She wants to watch every second of his cock sliding into her.

He takes himself in hand, and slowly drags the head of his cock through the slick folds of her cunt, once, and then again, teasing the hard nub of her clit at the end of each upward slide.

She has been with men before. Quick, hasty trysts in dark corners when Templar gazes were turned another direction, some satisfying, and others not nearly enough, but this—she has never had this.

A wild, shaking noise escapes her. She is half-mad with want, and she has barely begun to have him.

“ _Please…”_ She is not so proud that she will not beg. She has waited for this, wanted it longer than she should ever admit.

He does not ask her to say it again, not this time. He presses into her slowly, the stretch of his cock inside of her so perfect she forgets her desire to watch entirely. Her eyes fall shut, lips parting to shape a wordless cry at the first hard thrust of his hips, a shock of pleasure jolting through her when he does it again. He leans over her, and braces himself with his palms flat against the floor. She grips his back, and presses her lips to his shoulder, whether to nip at or kiss him, she cannot decide.

He moves in her so slowly, the steady roll of his hips like the ebb and flow of an ocean wave and just as powerful, his cock buried deep inside of her at the end of each motion. She can do nothing but hold on to him, ride out every wave of pleasure to its inevitable end as her heels dig into the backs of his thighs, her hips rising to meet his.

He whispers something into her ear, a word she does not understand, and tugs at her earlobe with his teeth.

“More,” she is so close now, the pressure inside of her threatening to snap, “Solas— _Oh_.”

He pulls out of her without warning, takes her by the hips and turns her onto her stomach.

When she opens her eyes, his veil measurement summary is just ahead of her, butted up against the desk and folded over on itself. She feels the strangest compulsion to reach for it—why, she cannot say.

The urge scatters when he slides back into her, is forgotten entirely as he abandons slow in favor of quick, hard thrusts. He leans forward and grips her by the shoulder, pulling her back to meet the jerk of his hips.

“Is this enough?” His fingers dig into the swell of her hip. “Will you come for me like this?”

 _Yes_ , she wants to say, but the word catches in her throat when he gathers a handful of her hair and tugs her head back, a sharp feeling too good to be pain racing down her spine, and then she is lost, only dimly aware of the ragged groan he lets out when he follows her.

He rolls to his side and drags her with him, his arm curling around her stomach to pull her back against his chest. She sighs, and closes her eyes—

—only to open at the sound of an urgent knock at her door.

Sunlight fills the expanse of her room, and she blinks as her eyes adjust to the bright light.

She is in bed. Alone.

It—it wasn’t real.

 _A matter of debate_ , Solas might say, but he is not here. He never was.

She is not afforded the luxury of lingering in bed to revisit the dream; the knocking is back, and more urgent than before.

“I’ll be right there!”

She rolls out of bed, kneels to tug on her boots before she flits over to her desk to at least bring the reports she managed to get through. She nearly steps on a piece of parchment in her haste, a single page that’s fallen to the floor some time in the night. She crouches down to retrieve it, and her blood runs cold as she stares down at the neat script of Solas’s handwriting.

_You would have me? Give yourself to me, in return?_

No.

No, no, _no_.

Her visitor loses patience, and all but bangs a fist at the door. Cassandra, she thinks. Cassandra can damn well wait.

Maker’s breath, what has she done?


	2. Heat

Perhaps she is wrong.

Perhaps it was Solas, and this is simply a misunderstanding. She has walked with him in the Fade before, unaware that she was dreaming, and though she might have preferred to be with him in the waking world…

It is unlikely that he would do such a thing without telling her, but the possibility exists, and it is all that keeps her from falling apart. As it is, she cannot focus through the briefing, she is too distracted by the anxious pit of worry lodged in her chest.

"—if the Inquisitor does not object, of course.”

Mal glances up at the use of her title, three expectant gazes waiting on her for input. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Are you all right, Inquisitor?” Josephine lowers her tablet, her gaze soft with concern.

_You really aren’t, are you?_

“I’m fine.” Mal forces a smile. “It was a long night.”

The excuse makes her want to cringe as soon as she offers it. Her advisors are no strangers to long nights. She often wonders if they ever sleep at all, they work so tirelessly to maintain the Inquisition’s forward momentum, and not one of them would ever do what she suspects she has done, certainly not Cullen, who had every reason to break after days of—

_Oh, but he was so close. You should have heard the thoughts in that head—depraved is an understatement. Another day in their care, and you would find him a very different man. Well. Not quite a man. More like a very handsome set of clothes._

The thought is so unlike her, and yet it feels so much like her own, she nearly finds herself nodding along with it in agreement.

That is when she knows.

The war room is not a small room. It is wide and open, the ceiling is high, and the row of tall windows let in just enough light to make it welcoming. She has never felt uncomfortable here, even after hours behind closed doors to plan battles and prioritize missions as they come in, some discussions devolving into outright arguments, but she has always been at ease, secure in the knowledge that she is safe within the walls of Skyhold, free to come and go as she pleases.

Now, the walls loom too close, the light is so scarce it may as well not exist at all, and the doors seem an insurmountable barrier that she cannot escape.

The Circle is not so far behind her that she has forgotten what it feels like to be trapped.

“Let’s table the matter for another time. I think we could all use some air.” Cullen circles around the table, approaching her with care. “Mal, if you’ve a moment? I could use your help on the battlements.”

She cannot speak. Her throat is too tight, and she hasn’t the air to form a sound, let alone a word.

_I’d go with him, if I were you. Can’t have you asphyxiating, can we? However would you make those delightful little noises again?_

She burns with shame at the memory.

It is not the intrusive voice in her head that makes her hesitate, in the end. Rather, it is the kindness she finds when she meets Cullen’s gaze, an understanding alongside it that he cannot begin to fathom the true depth of.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I—I need to…” She wills herself to take a breath. “Can it wait?”

“Of course.” She does not fail to see the match to Josephine’s concern settling into his expression as he inclines his head. “Inquisitor.”

She does not wait for the others. Mal is the first to leave, urgency in every step carrying her down the crumbling hall and through the door of Josephine’s office, no specific destination in her mind apart from away from here. She does not dare return to her quarters. She cannot stand to even glance in the direction of the rotunda, even as Varric’s “Hey, Inquisitor!” carries over the bustling crowd when she enters the main hall.

She turns, and the door to the undercroft swings open, as if on cue. Solas emerges with Dagna trailing behind him, a stack of books in his arms and a thoughtful turn to his expression as Dagna’s cheery voice poses what must be a question, if not a series of them.

Her pulse leaps, and she nearly turns away, but he glances up before she can, his expression warming as he catches sight of her.

She smiles in greeting, and there is little to buoy the expression above a weak showing, but the recognition in his eyes steadies her, reminds her that she is still herself. How long she remains that way after making a deal with a demon… That remains to be seen.

_So dramatic, you mortals. Is this how you react when you bed one of your own?_

“What do you _want_?” She all but hisses the question under her breath, painfully aware that she is not alone here, not in any sense of the word.

_Find somewhere nice and private to go, and you might just find out._

The last thing she should do is turn towards the door leading upstairs. And yet, that is precisely what she does. She will call it curiosity, a need to halt whatever she has begun with this demon in its tracks, she will call it anything that lets her forget the throb of heat between her legs at the implication of its invitation, because this needs to end before things get worse.

* * *

She is not prepared for the normality that greets her when she enters her room once more, muscles poised to fight in anticipation of a danger that simply is not here. Everything is precisely how she left it, the doors to the balcony are all open, and the fire has long since died, cold ashes littering the hearth in its wake.

She remembers the warmth of the fire on her skin last night. It paled in comparison to the heat of his— _its_ touch. To her shame, the recollection only makes her flush with heat all over for want of more.

For some time, she sits cross-legged at the edge of her bed, alternately staring at and furiously avoiding the sight of the floor in front of the hearth, the very spot she broke so well, her body intertwined with another in what she believed was—

No.

Somewhere, deep down, she knew that it was not him. There were signs, small things, and she let them go, because she wanted. Because she wants. Some part of her knew, or at least suspected, that it was not real, and she did not let herself question it further. That choice was hers, and she made it. Worse than that, she is not certain that she would not make it again. She _would_ make it again. There is no use in denying it.

What she truly is not certain of is what she will do if he—if it comes to her now.

The thought only sends her pulse racing faster.

She is barely aware of what her hand is doing until she feels the pressure of her own touch bearing down on her cunt through her trousers. She gasps—and then strokes herself with a helpless moan, muscles clenching around nothing, aching for something to squeeze, fingers, a cock, anything. Another stroke, and she cannot help but sob.

_I like what I’m hearing, Inquisitor._

The voice—nothing at all like Solas’s—is not the deterrent she would prefer it to be. It only makes her burn brighter, knowing that—that it is _listening_. Watching? She falls back on the bed, and all but shoves her hand down her trousers, whining as her fingertips bump at her clit.

 _That’s it_ , the voice croons, the sharp, wicked approval in its tone tantamount to a promise she doesn’t want to turn away from, even knowing that she should. That she must. _Get that pretty cunt of yours all slick, and I’ll slide right in. You won’t regret it._

She will. She already does. But not enough to stop.

She drags her trousers down to her knees, and fucks herself desperately with her fingers as she works to kick them the rest of the way off, the wet squelch of her cunt obscenely loud in the quiet of her room. She rolls her thumb across her clit and shivers, choking back a needy moan.

 _You want that, don’t you? You don’t want to want it, but you do._ It seems to take no small amount of delight in pointing that out.

She claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the moan that spills out. It is too damning a sound not to contain it.

 _You should see yourself right now_ , it chuckles. _I could watch you do this for hours._

Maker, what that does to her…

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice is strung tight enough to break, a whimper on the heels of her words.

 _Me? I’m not doing anything. I’m just enjoying the view._ It quiets for a moment, as if in consideration. _You really should see yourself, Inquisitor. You are quite a sight._

A sharp crackle interrupts the soft, wet noises of pleasure she does not want to want, and she turns her head in time to watch as frost spirals into ice, and spreads between the the posts of her bed, thick, reflective walls springing up that box her in, hold her captive to the sight of herself writhing on her own fingers.

She sees herself, flushed and wanting, and cannot look away.

 _Didn’t I tell you?_ It does not bother to disguise it’s delight. _Shall I come to your bed? Or would you rather I simply watch?_

She is so close, so shamefully close now that she can hardly stand it. “What—what do you _want_ from me?” That she is even stooping to asking the question will haunt her for years to come.

It chuckles again. _For now? Just this. It’s really very simple, Inquisitor. I can watch, or I can join you. Your choice._

She considers it. She considers asking, _begging_ to be joined. It knows her, knows her body, what she wants, when she wants it, it has proven that much already.

“No.” She speaks without realizing, and closes her eyes to shut out the sight of herself, shivering in the cold air. “ _No_.”

A larger part of her than she is willing to admit to regrets the word the moment she utters it.

 _No?_ It sounds disappointed. _Well, if you change your mind…_

She jerks upright with a gasp, her hand still buried between her legs, though her fingers have stilled inside of her.

The walls of ice are gone, as if they never existed at all. The room is quiet. Empty, save herself, not a thing out of place.

If the demon remains, it is not choosing to reveal its presence now

She curls in on herself, and rubs furiously at her swollen clit until she breaks with a wail muffled into the sheets.

* * *

The Herald’s Rest is crowded that night, a swarm of bodies so large that Mal is able to pass through relatively unnoticed, save a nod in greeting from Bull.

It is not difficult to pick a willing partner among the crowd, and after a single drink, she takes him out back, tucked away into the shadows where they are less likely to be found.

She does not know his name, nor does she care to. He is sharp featured, handsome, in a way, with dark hair and a Marcher accent, and strong enough to lift her up, pin her to the wall and hold her there as his hips work between her thighs, the thick slide of his cock enough to make her forget, if only for a moment, what she nearly did.

This—this is real.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts, pushes his face into her neck and bites down harder than she wants him to, “Can’t believe… the _herald_ —”

She grabs a fistful of his hair and drags his head back, studying him for a moment before she presses her mouth over his to quiet him. It does not take long after that, he seems to know well enough how to angle his thrusts, and she clings to him as she comes, moaning into his neck as he follows her right after.

Neither of them speak in the aftermath, furtive glances are all they share as they set their clothes back to rights. She glances up as he steps closer, opens her mouth to speak, though what she means to say, she hasn’t a clue. He takes her hand before she can get a word out, and squeezes it, as if in thanks.

“You won’t be hearing stories about this later, Inquisitor. I’m not that type.”

“I—” For a moment, it simply baffles her. She had not considered what might come later. What she might do if word of this got out. Does it even matter? “Thank you.”

As she watches him leave, the weight that had lifted from her chest starts to settle back into place. Now that she is alone, no warm body left to forget herself in, the truth is not so easy to ignore.

This solved nothing.

If the demon comes to her again, she is afraid of what her answer will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, guys! <3


	3. Choice is yours, don't be late

Mal’s dreams that night begin so peacefully.

The Fade has brought her to a sprawling field, tall grass a soft a cushion beneath her back as she stares up at the sky, early morning sunlight breaking through the clouds overhead. It’s quiet, no sound but her own breath and the wind that rustles through the grass in waves. It’s only too easy to forget the events that led her here.

She does not want to think of what she nearly did. Why she nearly did it. Seeking an outlet in a living, breathing man was no solution at all and though the choice itself does not shame her, the reason behind it does.

It could have been so simple. _Just this_ , she could have said. No deals. No catches. No loopholes. She has rebuffed enough attempts to know the way that demons operate. That this one caught her off guard is dangerous, but now that she knows— 

“I have to say, I quite enjoyed that performance.” It’s different, hearing his voice in the Fade. It makes him so much more real. “Did it help?”

Perhaps she should be surprised that he’s come to her again so soon. Somehow she isn’t. “No.” She closes her eyes and turns away from the sound of his voice. She doe not want to look up and see Solas’s eyes staring back at her if that is the face he’s wearing. “But you already know that.”

He laughs. “That’s the thing about me, Inquisitor.” His steps are silent but she feels him move, feels him kneel in front of her and place his hands on her knees to spread them apart. “I’m very transparent. Not unlike you, actually.”

Her breath catches, eyes straining to shut tighter.

“You’re right, you know.” His fingers skate down the insides of her thighs. “No catches.” The press of his hand between her legs is light but she feels it so keenly, a mere prelude of what she knows him to be capable of. “No loopholes.” He tugs at the laces of her trousers, pulls them down her hips, down her thighs, tosses them aside once they’re off her feet. “Just a choice. Yes or no.” His hands settle at her hips, fingers toying with the edges of her smalls. “I’m not hearing a no.”

She can’t.

He leans over her, the heat of his breath on her skin welcome in a way she does not want to admit. His teeth graze her stomach as he takes her smalls between them and pulls, his grip rough as his hands join the task of tearing them away. And still she can’t say it. Can’t look. Can’t breathe.

He covers her body with his own and reaches down to line himself up. “You don’t have to look.” She bites her lip to keep herself from making a sound, from begging for more the way she wants to when the head of his cock presses just inside of her. “You don’t have to talk.” One of his hands covers her mouth to illustrate his point, the other pressing flat to the ground beside her for leverage. “You probably ought to breathe."

And then he pushes into her, a slow, smooth glide that her hips rise to meet before she can stop them.

“Of course, if you want to talk, I’m not opposed.” He draws back and snaps his hips forward with a grunt. She chokes on a sound she doesn’t want to think of as a moan, muffled as it is beneath his palm. “I’m fond of _yes_ , if you’re taking suggestions.”

Mal writhes beneath him, arches her back and moves to meet his every thrust. The moment his hand shifts away from her mouth her lips fall open, a ragged cry spilling out unhindered.

“How’s this for a deal?” He slides his hand beneath her shirt, pinches her nipple between his fingers and tugs, a bolt of heat racing down between her legs. “Say yes and next time we’ll get creative.” He rolls it between his fingers, pulls it tight until she whines, high and needy. “There’s a delightful little contraption, two little clamps on a chain… Something tells me you’ll have an interest in it.”

She can picture it easily with her eyes closed like this. _Feel_ it. The phantom sting along with the reality of sharp pleasure at the peak of her breast. 

_Yes._

“What was that?” He does not bother to mask his amusement. He has her. He’s had her from the very start and now that she knows it too there is no point in pretending otherwise. “A little louder.”

He shifts his hips, adjusts his angle and drives into her until she loses all semblance of thought. All she knows is the throb in her cunt, the slick sounds of his cock filling her, the pleasure winding unbearably tight inside of her. _This_ is what she wanted, what she could not get from a stranger behind a tavern, what she’ll never forgive herself for allowing not once, but twice. And it will happen again. If she knows nothing else, she knows that. There will be a next time.

“Yes, _yes_ —” Her back arches off the ground, the crown of her head pushing at the matted grass beneath her. “I—I need—”

He reaches down to roll his fingers across her clit, stroking and pressing, circling and pinching as he fucks her with quick, brutal precision. Exactly what she needs, exactly when she needs it.

“One of the benefits of my kind—” The rasp of stubble scrapes at her jaw. Her face strains away even as the rest of her strains closer. “—we can hear you. Every thought. Even those quiet little whispers you people want to pretend don’t belong to you. But you—you’re very loud. You want. All the time.” She shivers when the heat of his breath grazes the shell of her ear. “For example… you want to come.” His thrusts slow. His hand recedes, fingers smearing a slick trail across her skin. He grinds into her once, twice, slow, deep movements that make her whimper helplessly before he withdraws. “So work for it. It’s hardly a choice if I do it for you.”

She does not think. She is beyond thinking. She reaches blindly for his shoulders and pushes to roll them and reverse their positions. She opens her eyes long enough to look down, fingers wrapping around the slick length of his cock to hold it in place before she lifts her hips and sinks down. Her mouth falls open, breath shuddering out with a shaky noise, heat rippling outward from between her thighs at the fullness of him so deep inside of her. She tilts forward, one hand splaying out against his chest to steady herself.

“Go on.” It takes everything she has not to look at him when he speaks. She can’t bear the thought of a familiar face seeing her like this. “This is why you're here, isn't it?"

It is. It must be. She can admit that, if only to herself. Why else would she risk the Fade so readily, knowing that he would be waiting here?

She finds her knees, digs in and lifts herself up. Lets herself fall. Slowly at first to savor the push and pull of pleasure that rises, but it is too much too quickly and she has to move. Fuck herself on his cock. Frantically. Urgently. Until she is nothing but heat and fire and need, mindless moans and panted breath spilling out of her as she quivers and shakes with every rise and fall.

He surges up when she tenses, presses a hand to the small of her back to keep her moving as the other takes hold of her chin to lift her face, forcing her to look him in the eye when she shatters.

His eyes are green. Shadowed. Lit up with unabashed delight beneath a prominent brow, his thin mouth drawn back in a smirk. He’s handsome enough, but so— _normal_ , someone she might have seen a thousand times before and made no note of.

“Not so bad after all, hm?” But she has no answer, she can only stare at him wordlessly, jaw locked tight in the rigid grip of release as he holds her in place and fucks her through her peak with quick little jerks of his hips. “No one you know. Something you can picture when you think of all the things you want me to do to you next time.”

She falls forward, pushes her face into the crook of his shoulder as the last bit of pleasure is wrung out of her, shuddering feebly with a quiet whimper.

He chuckles and lowers his head, his tongue flicking out to taste the sheen of sweat along her shoulder. “You don’t really think we’re done here, do you?”

She shakes her head, a weak back and forth as she pants for breath. “No.”

He turns her. Guides her to her hands and knees. Traces up the knobs of her spine to curl his hand around the back of her neck.

And then he starts all over again.

  


* * *

  


There is a next time.

There are several next times.

Every night he comes to her, fucks her within an inch of her endurance and then gleefully past it, pushing her to heights she never thought to reach. Every morning Mal wakes wet and wanting so much more, a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as she writhes on her fingers until she falls apart. And still, it isn’t enough. She wants until it aches, lust like an affliction simmering in her gut.

He leaves her be when she is away from Skyhold. She cannot help but be grateful for that as she follows Blackwall’s lead through the towering forests of the Emerald Graves, Solas just behind her and Cole bringing up the rear. It’s astoundingly green, this place, lush and vibrant and bursting with life for all the death beneath its roots—a tree for every fallen knight, they say. There are trees as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, despite its history—and _dangerous_. She can afford no distractions when they come upon Red Templar camps, when giants cross their path and force them to divert their course. And yet she is distracted. Her demon may not speak but she feels his presence like a ghost at her back. Watching. Waiting. No doubt enjoying the effect he has on her.

The scream of a behemoth cuts through her thoughts, too close for comfort.

“Look sharp.” Blackwall’s directive draws her fully into the present. “Red bastards up ahead.”

Mal breaks formation and scurries up the hill to her left, lying low to keep out of sight. She lifts her head to peek over the edge when she reaches the top, the camp ahead of them coming into view. One behemoth. Three men wielding oversized shields. One archer to the right, another to the left. It’s well defended, but they have faced worse odds. She ducks her head and turns to slide back down and inform the others.

Solas is waiting at the bottom of the hill, Blackwall and Cole standing ready behind him. He extends his hand when she reaches him, a wordless offer of assistance that she can do no more than stare at.

She has been avoiding him for weeks, making every excuse she can think of to put off the appointments he has tried to make with her. She does not pass through his study anymore to reach the library. She turns the other way whenever she catches sight of him in the hall. Even the journey here found her seeking every menial task she could to keep herself occupied, to close herself off from the possibility of an approach.

This is the closest she has been to him since—

“You didn’t know,” Cole murmurs, lifting his head to gaze at her from beneath the wide brim of his hat. “All that light. It makes you bright, brighter, bursting. Of course he sees. How could he not?”

Solas looks sharply to Cole.

She pushes forward to take his hand before he can consider Cole’s words too deeply. His gaze drifts back to her as he pulls her to her feet. “Six, all in all. One archer on each side.” She stiffens when he reaches up to steady her with a hand at her shoulder. “The rest are close quarters. One behemoth. Three with shields.”

“You’re sure?” Blackwall asks.

She nods.

Solas steps back, a flicker of disquiet in his eyes as he studies her. “I take it you have a plan?”

She shrugs, her mouth drawing back into a wan smile. “Apart from not dying?”

“Ideal as an end result,” he says, “but yes, apart from that.”

“I thought we might try attacking them.” She looks to Blackwall. “You’ll go in first. Hold their attention. Cole, stick to the shadows as much as you can. Don’t give them a steady target.” She takes a breath before she looks back to Solas. “If you veer left and focus on that archer, I’ll do the same on the right.”

She does not wait for agreement. She breaks away from the group, drawing her staff as she follows the curve of the hill further down to wait for Blackwall’s charge.

She races up at Blackwall’s rallying cry. Her archer falls to a barrage of flame. She looks towards the second archer to assist, but they too are out of the equation. Solas has already turned his attention to the cluster of bodies trading blows below. Cole flits into and out of the fray like a shadow, a flurry of movement with every pass to confuse them, get them turning, their backs exposed as Blackwall holds back the behemoth.

Mal rushes down. Flames spark at the tips of her fingers as she calls them forth, flings them outward with a sharp turn of her staff. The first templar falls easily but the others catch on and close ranks, back to back to make themselves impenetrable.

Not an easy position to hold when she raises a wall of fire between them.

She is ready when one rushes towards her, a glyph primed right in their path. It ignites at the first step upon its surface. Flames swarm up the massive shield, swallow up well worn armor and engulf the battered helm. The templar lurches forward, their strangled yell cut off abruptly at the burst of grey fog behind them. Cole appears through the fog, withdrawing his daggers as the templar falls. He sprints after the behemoth that’s broken away from Blackwall to focus its fury on Solas, but his efforts are unnecessary—the behemoth falters beneath the weight of a veilstrike and roars its last as it crumples.

She turns in time to see Blackwall outflank the remaining templar, dodging a wild blow to end the fight with a decisive thrust of his sword beneath the templar’s raised arm.

She sweeps a hand over her brow to push back errant strands of dark hair that have fallen into her eyes as she surveys the field in the aftermath, all six opponents accounted for. She looks to her companions next to gauge the damage they’ve taken. No one appears to be injured beyond smaller cuts and scrapes, bruises that will no doubt darken as the day goes on. Blackwall’s armor could use some repair, it’s dented in places from the force of the behemoth’s blows, but all in all they seem—

_Oh for—behind you, Inquisitor._

Mal drops like a stone at the warning, her staff falling from her grip when her knees hit the ground. She scrambles to turn, to identify the threat, a Shadow appearing the moment she lifts her gaze. The spikes of lyrium in place of its arms are poised to strike a target that’s dropped out of position.

Poised to strike her.

Her fault, her fault, this is _her fault_. She glanced too quickly, was too careless in her assessment, and now she has but heartbeats before it regroups. She fumbles desperately for her staff. For the bladed end of it that may yet save her. Magic is too far out of reach with her energy so diminished from the fight.

Someone shouts. The sudden shiver of a barrier falls over her. She doubts it will be enough.

She throws herself back from the blur of motion ahead of her. Rolls to the side to dodge the blow she knows is coming. There is a grunt. A rasping gurgle. She looks up in a panic, certain the noises are hers, her fault, so _stupid_ —

It takes her a moment to fully comprehend what she sees.

Solas. Crouching in front of her. His staff raised, the bladed end buried deep in the throat of what used to be a human man, irrevocably corrupted by red lyrium.

The gurgling ceases. The lyrium spiked arms give a final twitch and fall to hang as limp and weightless as the rest of the body. 

Later, Mal will let herself wonder what possible reason a demon might have for intervening as hers did. Right now she is too relieved at finding herself alive to care. She drags herself to her knees as Solas lowers his staff to rid it of its weighty burden. She does not question the urge to wrap an arm around him and rest her brow against his shoulder as she tries to catch her breath, nor is she surprised when he reaches up to press his hand against the wild spill of her hair, half undone in the struggle.

“Are you hurt?”

A question he has asked her countless times before, but she does not think she has ever heard it come out so frayed.

“No, I’m—I’m all right.” She lets herself hold on a little tighter, if only for a moment. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. His hand drifts down from her hair when she lifts her head, pausing briefly at the crook of her arm before withdrawing.

“I’m certain you’ll return the favor.” He turns to look at her, a furrow in his brow that only ever appears when he is confronted with a particularly puzzling question to resolve. “Think nothing of it.”

It is all she is able to think of for the duration of their time in the Emerald Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeesh this one took awhile too, sorry guys! As always, thank you so much for reading. All of your kudos and comments are so very appreciated. <3
> 
> (This chapter heavily influenced by Prep School's cover of "Come As You Are". On repeat. For hours.)


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